The cook had glided in.
"Better sling yer 'ook out of 'ere, Yonson," he said.

"The old man'll be wantin' yer on deck, an' this ayn't no d'y to fall foul of 'im." Johnson turned obediently to the door, at the same time, over the cook's shoulder, favouring me with an amazingly solemn and portentous wink as though to emphasize his interrupted remark and the need for me to be soft-spoken with the captain.
Hanging over the cook's arm was a loose and crumpled array of evil-looking and sour-smelling garments.
"They was put aw'y wet, sir," he vouchsafed explanation.

"But you'll 'ave to make them do till I dry yours out by the fire." Clinging to the woodwork, staggering with the roll of the ship, and aided by the cook, I managed to slip into a rough woollen undershirt.

On the instant my flesh was creeping and crawling from the harsh contact.

He noticed my involuntary twitching and grimacing, and smirked: "I only 'ope yer don't ever 'ave to get used to such as that in this life, 'cos you've got a bloomin' soft skin, that you 'ave, more like a lydy's than any I know of.